Drinks, Drugs & Dreams
by Taruyison
Summary: Alex's habit of getting wasted every Friday is suddenly difficult with the Blacklight in his body. He decides to try other means of getting high, but realizes all too late what the consequences are of his mistake. Rated M for drug use, alcohol and death.


**A/N:**

From reading this again, I'm figuring that it will get a rewrite at some point in time. When is hard to say, since I'm currently working on other things. Nevertheless... Enjoy.

-x-x-x-x-x-

 **Drinks, Drugs n Dreams**

* * *

By the time he'd downed his fifth beer, Alex didn't bother asking for another. His life had gone to Hell, and the city was raving havoc. All these strange new powers was epic, but the extreme healing had a major downside. Friday's had previously been the one day of the week where he'd hit the pub and get wasted to the point where he had forgotten the meaning of his existence. Now, he couldn't even get a buzz. Five beers, and nothing. He'd been at this since before it was legal for him to drink. Old habits are hard to drown, but now he was forced to, whether he liked it or not.

With a heavy sigh he got up from the stool and threw a quarter in his empty glass. The manager was quick to eye him down and point out that he'd have to pay for his drinks. To this, Mercer snarled and slammed his clenched fist on the bar counter.

"I've payed you enough to last for the rest of your precious life. I'm not wasting another penny on booze that doesn't even taste!" he growled, his eyes taking on a red hue. Both bartender and manager staggered back, and his head exploded in an agonizing headache. The hand that wasn't threatening to punch a hole in someone's face reached up to rub his temple, and his eyes slid shut. "Just be glad you're still alive" he grumbled and turned to head out the door.

He pulled up his hood and buried his hands deep down in the pockets of his jeans. Fresh air filled his lungs as he inhaled deeply once he was out on the streets. He'd have to find a substitute for the booze eventually. Maybe he could try a cigarette? No, that'd probably be evaporated from his system just like the alcohol. It could be worthy a try though. Tobacco wasn't alcohol. Not the same composition. Neither were drugs. Maybe he could seek out an unfortunate dealer on the way to wherever he was headed? Worth a shot.

With that in mind, he turned on his heel and walked back the same way he came - past the pub without as much as a glance - and continued down a few more blocks. He soon reached a run-down corner-store and pushed the door open. A bell clinged, and a manager popped up behind the counter. Was that a lollipop in her mouth? She greeted him with an oh-so-fake grin and started to list all the "amazing things" she had for sale. Alex scowled and marched up to the counter to interrupt her rambling with his demand.

"Cigarettes and a lighter" he said sharply. His headache was back again, and he rubbed his temples while she searched behind the counter for what he wanted. Fortunately for them both, she picked the first package her eyes landed on, and no questions had to be asked. He payed and left without another word. Now for the drugs. Those wouldn't be available at a regular store. He scrolled through the many memories he'd stolen and quickly found a possible victim. 'Too easy' he thought.

-xXx-

The man in question were cowarding in an alley together with a few other smug-looking nolifers. They were huddled around a metal trashcan with the contents lit up on a large fire. Homeless, no doubt. Alex threw a rolled up stack of bills on the ground in front of the dirtiest-looking one. They all looked up at him, and one of them grinned mischievously.

"Lookin' to get knocked up, huh?" he said, baring his teeth. Well, else he wouldn't be here, right? Mercer tensed his jaw and held back the urge to punch the man. They all would bail if he did, no doubt, and he'd have to either rob them blank or find a new dealer as a result. No use engaging in violence when it didn't have a worthy outcome. Then again, maybe he could satisfy his needs by just slashing a few bodies open. The headache returned with full force and splotches of color danced in the corners of his vision. He rubbed his temples with both hands and blinked before turning his attention back to the dealers with a glare. Their grins faded and the dirty guy picked up the bills. "Boss..." he mumbled. "T'is two grand". They looked at Alex as if he'd gone mad.

To his relief, no questions was asked, and he walked out with almost two pounds of cocaine. Not what he'd had in mind, but drugs were drugs. What he would do with all of it was the bigger issue. He would either have to get rid of it cause it wasn't of any use to him, or he'd carry it around for weeks to come. What the answer was to that question he would soon find out.

-xXx-

The hideout was just as he remembered it. Small, dusty, and smelled like two day old cheese. Disgusting, but as much of a home as he could get. He was sitting on the windowsill with a smoke in his hand, looking out at the burning city. At least this part of Manhattan was burning. The military was doing a decent job at controlling the spread, for now. Smoking wasn't especially thrilling. It proved a better result than the booze at the pub, but it wasn't exactly exaggerating.

Alex drew a deep huff on the cigarette to let the tobacco cloud his senses for the very brief moment it had any effect, before exhaling. A cloud of smoke left his lips only to be evaporated in thin air. A bit like the alcohol in his body. How /did/ his body work? He was obviously no longer affected the same way others were. He couldn't get drunk, fire didn't really harm him anymore, concrete cracked under his feet whenever he fell from a building. Hell, he only needed a maximum of ten seconds to heal a broken bone.

He let out another cloud of smoke and threw the stump out the window. Manhattan was already dying, another stump on the streets wouldn't matter. Alex jumped down from the windowsill, into the apartment and walked up to the desk cramped into a corner. Little bags with white powder were stashed in a pile, and he frowned. If this didn't work, he swore he'd try as many horrible ways to kill himself as he could come up with.

He cracked two bags open and poured the powder onto the table. A bill, scrape, roll, sniff. The effect was so immediate it caught him off guard. Without a proper system that the drug had to run through first, it reached his brain in a second. Logical and rational thinking was completely knocked out, senses dimmed and feelings numbed. The anger had suddenly vanished, getting replaced by a carefree relief, and his awareness skyrocketed. He realized how lucky he was that he healed so quickly, and how amazing it was that he was practically unkillable. Hell, he was immortal! He could jump off skyscrapers and not feel a thing. People could pepper him with bullets and it would tickle.

"I'm immortal" he sluddered and walked up to the window. He'd stuffed another two bags in his pocket in case he'd need it. Colorful dots and splotches clouded the edges of his vision, but he couldn't find any reason to care. Some of the shapes were actually quite beautiful. The city outside was beautiful. The thick red hue had been replaced with a clear blue sky and the buildings looked like new. And all because he'd thrown a stump and made a wish for the world to get better.

"I'm a fucking God!" he shouted and stepped off the windowsill. The air carried him for a short moment, though it felt like an eternity. He didn't remember the fall being so long. He enjoyed every moment of it though. Images played before his eyes. He was falling from a skyscraper, a plane, a mountain, a spacecraft. The memories triggered a panic to erupt within him, and the adrenaline flashed through every part of his body. It was terrifying, yet addicting. This would certainly not be the last time he got a thrill like this.

The ground suddenly slammed against his back, and while the concrete cracked from the impact, so did his bones. His spine split into at least five parts, his arms broke in three places, and his legs in six. The back of his skull were completely smashed. Tunnel vision. Pounding in his ears. Unbearable, indescribable pain in his entire body. Ragged, gasping breaths. Realization overwhelmed him. Had his time finally come? Would he finally be free from these chains of never ending pain?

Yet more images flashed by his eyes. Until one familiar face looked right at him. Short black hair and icy blue eyes, just like his own. She was shouting at him, and tears were streaming down her cheeks. Alex was suddenly aware that this wasn't a memory. It was too clear. Felt too real.

"Da-... na-..." he whispered weakly. He saw her lips move, but the increasing ringing in his ears blocked out all other sounds. The tunnel narrowed. The excruciating pain dulled. Slowly, he was fading from the world he'd began to call home. Slowly, he edged closed to the end of what a life could be called. He felt the weights of mortality lift from his shoulders, and he rose with it. A sob penetrated the deafening silence, and he turned to see who it belonged to.

There, on the ground a few steps ahead. A man dressed in a black leather jacket and gray jeans. Bruised, broken and bloodied. Alex Mercer; himself. An imaginary heart jumped out of his chest at the sight. His sister was crouched over the broken form of what used to be him. She was balling her eyes out; crying, screaming, begging for him to wake up - to come back. His gaze shifted to look at his own face. The eyes that was usually the soft icy blue was now a dull gray. They stared blankly into nothingness.

Alex gripped his aching chest with trembling hands. He was slowly being pulled by an invisible force away from the scene. Away from his sister.

"Dana!" he cried out.

.

 _"Dana, I'm sorry!"_

 _"I don't want to leave yet!"_

 ** _"DANA!"_**

.

.

.

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 _"Please, don't cry..."_

.

.

.

 _"Don't shed your tears for me..."_

* * *

 **End.**


End file.
